


The Winter's Tale

by Englandwouldfall



Series: As you like it [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5618431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the most wonderful time of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> You guys like angst, right? So this was mostly written because of the available title (thanks, Shakespeare). Then I just couldn't help it. 
> 
> (sorry)
> 
> (as you can probably tell this got finished much later than it was supposed to)

_December, 2068._

Gabriel manages to cheat his selective phone dodging by calling from an unknown number. Dean only falls for it because he's distracted by the oncoming storm that is Christmas, which turns out to be what Gabriel is calling about in the first place. 

"Buck up, Deano, you couldn't avoid me forever and your kid invited me to Christmas." 

"Which?" 

"Claire," Gabriel says, "Figured we should break the ice before we bring out the crackers." 

"I ain't buying no crackers," Dean says, chest tightening. His reasoning for avoiding talking to Gabriel is illogical and selfish, but still doesn't want to deal with this right now. He's right, obviously. Dean needs to get this done with right now to prepare himself for it, because it's going to hurt. It might fucking cripple him. "How are you, anyway?" 

"Hark, now he cares." 

"Course I fucking care," Dean mutters, then he winds up coughing. It's a mixture of emotion and the fact that his lungs are a sack of shit these days, along with the rest. His whole body is slowly betraying him, but he's pretty sure that's what life is about past seventy. The world maybe telling him that's not that old, really, he could have another couple of decades, but frankly Dean's not sure. He’s seventy six. That’s plenty. He really wishes he’d listened to every damn thing Bobby told him about getting old because it _absolutely_ sucks and Dean never gave him enough credit for dealing with it. Frankly, Bobby got old with way more grace then Dean feels like giving it right now. 

"What's the plan for Christmas?" 

"Way to avoid the question, Gabe," Dean says, "We... uh, everyone's coming here. Kids, grandkids. Sam. Sam's kids. Sam's grandkids." 

"Sounds very white picket. You disgust me, Whinechester." 

"Why don't you take my picket fence and fuck yourself with it, Gabe." 

"Always such a charmer," 

"What do you want from me?" 

"A good ol' fashioned catch up." 

"What's there's to catch up," Dean mutters, "I'm old. My arthritis sucks. My kids are bulldozing me with Christmas, which I’m ninety percent sure I’m too old for.” 

“Don’t make me quote the muppets Christmas carol at you, bro.” 

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” Dean says, fumbling with the coffee machine, because he needs to concentrate on something else other than this conversation. “You got somewhere to stay?” 

“No room at the inn, huh?” 

“Gabe, I’m not in the mood for your shit. Do I need to make up a room or not?” 

“I’m staying with Sam,” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, even though he could do without the stupid tip toeing round him. Still, it means he can ration the amount of time he has to spend with Gabriel, which is a good thing. The thought put into it is both annoying and helpful. “That doesn’t sound awkward at all.” 

“They told you none of this?” 

“They might have done,” Dean says, “Dunno. They all talk about Christmas a lot.” 

“You doing okay, Dean?” 

“Just peachy,” Dean says, then he hangs up so he can finish the process of making coffee without Gabriel’s voice droning in his ear. He’s resolutely not ready for Christmas, but there’s no stopping it. It’s going to happen one way or another. He doesn’t have a choice about that. 

Dean takes his coffee into the living room, passing the corridor. 

“Hang your fucking coat up, douchebag,” Dean tells the stupid tan trench coat mark twenty something hanging on the banister, then slumps down on the sofa and cranks up the volume of some Christmas special of a program about terrible tattoos. 

Gabriel calls twice more from a withheld number, but Dean can’t be fucked to deal with it. 

**** 

_December, 2035_. 

The day starts with a five year old jumping poking him in the face, whilst a nine year old chews her thumb nervously and says “Claire, Daddy said not to wake him before seven,” which Claire, apparently, gives absolutely no shits about. 

“What time is it?” 

“Up time,” Claire says, then he gets poked in the face again. “Daddy, up. Up. Up.” 

“Why aren’t you bugging Padre over there?” 

“I thought we were allies.” Castiel mutters, voice all gravely and wonderful. 

“All’s fair in love and sleep, sweetheart.” 

“Daddy, _Santa_.” 

“All right, all right,” Dean says, sitting up, swallowing. “Santa’s been, huh?” 

“Yes, Daddy. Santa.” 

“Okay, buddy, I’m getting up. Give me five minutes.” 

“Five?” Claire asks, and she sounds so offended by the number that Dean can’t really deny her, which is probably the reason why they came to Dean rather than Castiel. Cas is a hard ass. Cas would have told Claire to come back at seven like they were told. 

“Okay, three. Three minutes,” Dean says, “Emma will help you take your stocking downstairs. How’s that, huh?” 

“Yes, okay,” Claire says, still vibrating with excitement. “Dad up too. Up, up, up.” 

“Oh, if I’m getting up you can bet your stuffed bunny that Dad’s getting up too, Claire bear.” 

“Good,” Claire says, then she’s running out of the room, racing back to her presents. 

“What time is it?” Cas mutters, turning into his side and essentially squashing his face against Dean’s side. 

“It’s up time,” Dean says, “Didn’t you hear the girl?” 

“Dean,” 

“Uh,” Dean says, reaching for his phone, “Six thirty. Could be worse.” 

“No,” Cas says, pulling the covers closer around him. “I do not get out of bed before seven on days I have booked leave.” 

“Sorry, Cas, you seem to be under the impression that you’re in charge here,” Dean smiles, kissing Cas on the forehead. “It’s Santa day.” 

“It’s _Christmas_ day,” Cas corrects, “And I am in charge.” 

“Daaaaaaaaddddddd,” A voice comes from next door and, oh yeah, Cas has no chance of anything resembling a frigging lie in. Cas makes a noise of complaint at the back of his throat and hides his face further into Dean’s skin. 

“How’s this,” Dean says, “That bit of the day when they crash and fall asleep watching a marathon of Frozen one, two, three and four, we can head back up here, and we can either reimburse you for your sleep time, or you can demonstrate just how in charge you are.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, taking his head out of hiding to kiss him, “Merry Christmas, Dean.” 

“Oh, you bet it’ll be merry, hotstuff.” 

“I wasn’t aware I’d selected sex over sleep.” 

“I know you,” Dean says, texting Sam a happy Christmas and a complaint about being dragged up at the ass crack of dawn. Sam texts back within a few minutes betting he’s been awake longer, which given Mary’s three months old is almost _definitely_ true, which is how he ends up synching up the TV in the main room with his phone till he gets Sam, Jess, Robbie and Mary waving at him from Sam’s front room before they even get to Christmas. 

Claire doesn’t really care all that much about saying hi to Sam, it’s fair to say, but Emma’s ecstatic. 

They get through one round of presents before Gabriel calls. Then it’s Bobby, Ellen and Jo, with little Will (Bobby does not look impressed to be subjected to video calling, but by the time he’s got Emma beaming at him and telling him about the three presents Santa got her that they’ve managed to open thus far, he’s a little less ornery; Emma has this magical powers of turning Bobby into a total sap, that none of the other grandkids have quite managed). They open the presents they got each other whilst they’ve still got them on the call and by that point it’s late enough that Dean has to slip out to start cooking Christmas dinner, which makes him enemy number one as far as Claire is concerned. Cas’ mom calls whilst Dean’s juggling oven dishes and placating his five year old. Cas ignore the calls from Michael and Lucifer when they’re finally back to doing the present rounds, saying he’ll call them back later, because he’s not sure Claire’s lesson on the art of patience is going particularly successfully. 

By the time Christmas Dinner rolls around, Dean’s exhausted, Cas is keeping up only by endless amounts of coffee, their kids are overactive, hyper and demanding to call Uncle Sam again to thank him for their presents and the candy (Dean’s so getting his own back for that shit). 

“Next year,” Dean says, after it turns out that they’ve both eaten so much sugar that they’re not interested in the Christmas Dinner Dean’s been slaving over. “We invite everyone here and have done.” 

“Agreed,” Cas says, then shoves a Christmas cracker hat on Dean’s head and kisses the disgruntled expression off his lips. 

*** 

_December, 2068_. 

Gabriel manages to get him on the phone again, like, ten days before Christmas, by which point Dean’s so over call dodging that he just answers with a grunted “what?” He’s having one of those days where he feels impossibly old, tired and achy. He only got out of bed because it meant he could have some painkillers, but the three cups of coffee he inhaled before lunch completely failed at making him feel remotely younger. 

“Always knew you’d be a grumpy old so and so, Deano.” 

“Yeah, well, turns out I’m not batman, so fuck that positive mental attitude crap.” 

“You thought about becoming a motivational speaker?” 

“Uhuh. Was right below working for Zachariah and hanging out with you on my list of shit I’d like to do with my time.” 

“Oh, burn Winchester.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, “What do you want?” 

“A good ol’ fashioned gossip,” Gabriel says, “How’s tricks?” 

“There’s a new series of _millionaire pensioners_ on so, you know, can’t complain.” 

“That the show Cas was always on about?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, lump at the back of his throat. “It’s crap.” 

“You going to church this Christmas?” 

“Fuck no,” 

“Thought Cas had you converted by now,” 

“By converted I’m guessing you mean blackmailed into going to see the grandkids then, yeah, I’m bathing in holy water and devouring the word of God. Emma’s not going this year either so, don’t worry about prepping your excuses,” Dean says, “You got any reason for chewing my ear off with this crap?” 

“Loneliness a good enough answer? We don’t all have _kids_ and _grandkids_ to put up with us being whiney old men, Losechester, so cut the Scrooge act and check in every once in a while. And let me know if you change your mind about church. Staring down the concept of my mortality in the mirror every morning has me really thinking about the afterlife. Thanks for picking up the call, douchebag,” Gabriel says. This time it’s Gabriel who hangs up. 

Dean gets himself another cup of coffee. That one doesn’t make him feel any younger, either. 

*** 

_December, 2044_. 

“I’m so uncomfortable,” Claire mutters, pulling at her leather jacket with a frown, tucking a blonde braid behind her ear. 

“Preach it, sister,” Dean throws back, stuffed in a stupid bench seat thing next to her, his own leather jacket making him stick out like a sore thumb. They _look_ uncomfortable. They might have walked into the only place where Cas looks more normal than they do. That, or they’re out of their comfort zone enough that they’re overthinking. “Why are we there?” 

“Emma,” Claire says, elbowing him and sending him a look. “Suck it up, Padre.” 

“It’s Christmas,” 

“Urgh, I know,” Claire says, pulling out her phone, frowning at it then pocketing it again. “You’re the one who raised a church geek.” 

“You think that’s my influence?” 

“Yeah, maybe not,” Claire says, nudging him to point as Cas, who’s busy talking to a severe looking woman in her late sixties. “You think he’s chatting her up?” 

“Probably,” Dean says, “Maybe I should go over there and stake my claim.” 

“Could liven things up,” 

“Is this the rest of your family, Castiel?” She asks, turning towards Dean and Claire and staring at them. They’re whispering to each together like a couple of kids and are, apparently, underdressed even though Cas and Emma assured that they were _fine_. 

Claire puts on her Dean-impression voice and says, a little too loudly, “Back off my man, McGonagall,” in Dean’s ear. Cas definitely hears her and Dean would bet the money Cas forced him to bring for the congregation plate that the woman does too, if the way her lips thin is anything to go by. “Put the church elder down, Asstiel.” 

“Hi,” Dean says, trying to keep a straight face, “I’m Dean and this is our youngest Claire. Nice to meet you.” 

“I think the service is about to start.” The woman says, turning back around. “

Oh, burn,” Claire says, at which point Dean has to turn around and glare at her, because she’s such a jerk, even if he’s really so, so grateful that she’s dicking about to make this whole thing less uncomfortable. 

“Hello Dean, Claire,” Cas says, his lips quirking up slightly. 

“Hey there, darling,” Dean says, as Cas sits down next to him. “Please tell me I won’t have to sing,” 

“There will be Christmas carols,” 

“Lord deliver us,” Claire comments and then, “Oh wait. That’s why we’re here.” 

“Didn’t know you were so worried about your eternal soul, Claire bear.” 

“Dean,” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean says, “Behaving.” 

“Welcome,” some woman at the front says, leaning into the mic. She’s wearing a leather jacket too, so Cas might have actually been right about them not needing to get changed for this shinding. “Welcome to today’s special Nativity service. This year our Nativity has been written and directed by our very own Emma Winchester-Novak,” 

Dean thought _he_ was clapping enthusiastically, but Cas’s efforts are louder than his are and Claire actually stands up to cheer. Dean gets this wave of spontaneous affection for all of them, cause they’re all here, at this church, on Christmas Eve, because his bad ass wonderful daughter has written a frigging _nativity_ play for the Sunday school she leads. Claire is uncomfortable. Claire hasn’t set foot in a church since Emma’s baptism thing and she hadn’t enjoyed that, not for a second, but she hadn’t even considered not coming. She’s fifteen. She’s fifteen year old and she’s still so defiantly proud of her big sister for writing a _nativity_ and it is awesome. 

The nativity itself is kind of great. The Virgin Mary is a six year old, so it has to be said that the acting itself isn’t all that, but most of it’s narrated by the twelve year old dressed as a donkey who’s pretty decent. It’s also hilarious. Dean’s pretty sure he misses some of the jokes because he has like no biblical knowledge (except stuff he gets from Cas), but there’s still some that Dean does get. Puns. There’s even an innuendo. 

In the end, the girl playing the donkey presents Emma with a bunch of flowers and this time all three of them stand up to clap. Emma’s flushed at the front of the church and Dean’s so, so glad that they’re all here. Claire beats him to giving Emma a hug and, actually, Dean’s pretty sure that means a little more; Dean kinda has to be proud of her for whatever she does, but Claire… that’s special. Claire thinks everything is lame right now and she’s cheering her church-geek big sister for writing a nativity. Dean is so damn proud of that. 

“Our kids are fucking aces, Cas,” Dean grins, as Claire goes to get Emma some coffee so Emma can talk to some of the parents of her nativity stars. “And, I gotta say, I think I like your church,” 

“You _like_ my church?” Cas repeats. “Could you repeat that, Dean, I think I need to preserve this moment.” 

“Jackass,” Dean grins, “I like your church. Two of my favourite people like it, so, I guess I’ve gotta take your opinions on board. You know what else? Emma is the shit with children. Her seriousness, sensitiveness, the routine thing, the way she so frigging empathetic sometimes I think she could read my mind. I feel like it might be her calling.” 

“That’s exciting,” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, man, it is. Merry Christmas Eve, Castiel. How many is it now?” 

“Christmases together? Low thirties,” Cas says, “I’m aiming for sixty.” 

“Sixty,” Dean smiles, lips twisting upwards, “Over half way there, sweetheart.” 

*

 _December, 2068._

“Hey, Daddy,” Emma says, when she calls him the week before Christmas. Dean’s been more or less working on a policy that he’s allowed to let about fifty percent of the calls from people he actually wants to talk to (AKA, not Gabriel) slip past the net. Fifty percent is manageable. Obviously, it would be better if people just quit calling him so damn incessantly, but he gets that this is coming from a good place. 

“You hadn’t called me that for years,” Dean grumbles, putting the TV on mute, “Why is it suddenly getting reinstated now?” 

“I just…” 

“Forget it,” Dean says, “I’m being an ass. What’s up, Princess?” 

“Just wanted to make sure you knew the plan.” 

“Right, the plan,” Dean says, “Hit me with it.” 

“Immediate family on Christmas eve – Gabe and Sam along with Claire and all of us. Everyone on Christmas Day.” 

“Everybody, huh?” Dean asks, then he realises how fucking cruel that comment is and regrets it so much he wants to hang up and not deal with it. Emma, for all that she is now a grown woman with a husband and frigging _kids_ , for fuck’s sake, is still sensitive. “Awesome. A proper reunion,” Dean says, continuing barrelling on like he’s not acting like a total bastard. “Haven’t seen Mia and Ben in a while. They doing okay?” 

“Yeah,” Emma breathes, “Yeah they are. Both doing well in school,” 

“School,” Dean shakes his head, “Still fucking weird every time you say it. You’re my baby, Emma.” 

“Claire’s the baby,” 

“Her too,” Dean says, “You’re both babies to me. Forever and always, sweetcakes.” 

“Oh come on,” Emma says, but he can hear she’s smiling. Dean can definitely do this. He can power through Christmas and socialising and dealing with his whole, wonderful family, that he built, that he loves with every single part of his being. He might even be able to enjoy it. “What have you been up to, Padre?” 

“Eh, you know. Wild parties, hard drugs and reality TV. Keeping things rock and roll,” Dean says, because what he’s actually been doing for months is a whole load of nothing. In all fairness, he’s been essentially doing sweet FA since he retired, but it didn’t feel slow until… well. “Cleaning out the loft. There’s some crap you might want, actually.” 

“Are you okay, Daddy?” 

“I’m great, Princess. Promise,” Dean says, then his chest starts to ache and he realises that, actually, he can’t do this anymore. He just can’t. “So, I gotta hit the head. See you soon.” 

“– Padre,” 

“Alright, bye, Emma,” Dean says, then he hangs up before she can pull him into further conversation. His cell’s nearly flat, which is kind of a relief, actually, and Dean has exactly no intention of charging it today. He can’t do it. 

There’s pictures of them everywhere. He gets stuck looking at one of Claire’s college graduation, with all of them dressed up, Cas’ tie wonky, Emma in this light blue dress, Claire’s sneakers still visible underneath her graduation robes. Cas looks so damn proud. He smiles out of the stupid picture, with one of those _real_ smiles, where Dean can see the beginnings of wrinkles forming around his eyes. 

“I can’t believe you left me to deal with this bullshit on my own,” Dean tells his stupid picture, then he pours himself a double measure of whiskey and sits in Cas’ study until his cell goes flat. 

* 

_December, 2014._

“Shush, Cas,” Dean mutters into the hollow of Cas’ throat, as he runs his lips, tongue, teeth against the skin there. Cas looks frigging glorious in Dean’s part time bedroom at Bobby’s that the guy’s been in half a dozen times before, even if now Cas is all deep breaths and squirming need, which is definitely new. “You gotta wrack the volume right down, buddy.” 

“Boyfriend,” Cas hisses back, “Not _buddy_.” 

It’s a new phrase. One Dean’s been batting about in his head for the past month and a half, but Dean’s not sure how many times either of them have used it out loud. Still, it’s sort of incredible. Dean has a frigging boyfriend, who just happens to be the best friend he’s been hopelessly pining over for years and years. 

“I like that more than I thought I would,” Dean murmurs back, looking the guy straight in the face in the dark. The dark thing’s new, too. They’ve pretty much always been a sex-with-the-lights on twosome (in part because, most of the time, the only reason they were sharing a bed was _because_ they were about to have sex; now they’re doing the relationship thing it’s kind of different), but Dean thinks he might kinda like the fact that it’s quiet and his view of Cas is muted by the dark. It adds a layer of intense, seriousness to their ‘oh, it’s now Christmas, let’s fool around’ plan. 

“Being my boyfriend?” 

“No, man, I knew I’d like _that_. I mean…the term,” 

“I know,” Cas smiles, reaching forward to kiss him. “I’m teasing you.” 

“Damn right you are, sweetheart.” 

“Hmm,” Cas says, and suddenly Dean’s being pinned to the bed with Cas straddling him and, damn, Cas does not fuck around. “I like _that_.”

“The dumb sentimental crap that’s falling out my mouth?” 

“Yes. Although, you do generally use the term when you’re patronising someone.” 

“Oh, awesome. Well that’s just _peachy_.” 

“That wasn’t a complaint,” 

“Sure sounded like a complaint,” Dean says, and his mouth’s automatically filling in the blank with _buddy_ or sweetheart and he’s struggling to find something to fill the gap. “ _Honey_.”

“No,” Cas says, tracing the bow of Dean’s lips with his thumb because, well, because that’s the kind of thing Cas likes to do. Dean’s learning not to feel self-conscious about it, but it’s going to take a while. “I don’t like that.” 

“Look, _sweetheart_ , your Mariah Carey quoting self said you wanted me, carnally, for Christmas and now we’re twenty minutes into Christmas and you’re dicking around rather than cashing in.” 

“Shush, Dean,” Cas says, smirking at him through the dark, “Bobby might hear.” 

Dean stifles his desire to laugh in Cas’ shoulder and he is so, so unbelievably glad that this year they’re an _us_ and this year Cas is his _mother fucking boyfriend_ and Dean is absolutely and a hundred percent allowed to be in love with the guy. 

Merry Christmas, indeed. 

****

 _December, 2068_

Sam turns up on the twenty first to give him hell about not having Christmas decorations up yet, like Dean actually volunteered to host Christmas rather than being swept into it by his unconditionally loving family who, with all due respect, know absolutely fucking nothing about what it feels like to suddenly be _alone_ after nearly fifty five years. 

“This is a frigging ambush,” Dean says, leaning on his doorframe as Sam carries in the world’s smallest and shittiest Christmas tree from his car. Dean had been intending to get to it, but December somehow got away from him. He hasn’t done anything with it, he’s pretty sure, but it slipped by nevertheless. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?” 

“Pretty sure it’s for the kids,” Sam says, passing Dean a crap tonne of tinsel and a look that’s part sympathetic and part just plain old understanding and Dean’s once again struck by how glad he is that Sam relocated to Lawrence when he did. Dean’s not sure he’d be walking and talking if he hadn’t. “Are you doing any better?” 

“What do you think, Sam?” Dean snaps, “Feeling like I’m missing half my limbs.” 

“Dean, it…” 

“I know, I know,” Dean says, “But I’m sick and tired of this time heals bullshit. Like everyone’s expecting me to function and smile my way through Christmas like my life isn’t half over. I’m just tired, Sammy. I just _miss_ him.” 

“Yeah,” Sam blinks, “Yeah.” 

“Whatever,” Dean swallows, “Can we just get this done if it’s gotta be done?” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, because Sam is a fucking saint sometimes. It’s later, when they’ve got a rough estimation of the usual Christmas decorations strung up – from the handmade stuff Emma and Claire made at school, to the stuff that Amelia and Ben made a whole generation late – that Dean pours coffee for them both and voluntarily brings it up. 

“How did you cope with Jess?” 

“Jess… it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to go through,” Sam says, “But, we only had seventeen years. She was forty four. It… I wasn’t expecting it, but… Dean, you and Cas were together forever. This was never going to be easy.” 

Dean grunts in response and concentrates on drinking his coffee. His lungs feel tight. His bones ache, which may or may not be because of arthritis shit that he’s supposed to take medication for (he forgets, generally, without Cas reminding him). 

“Tree looks good,” Dean says, when the silence has stretched on for too long. 

Sam nods. 

Dean doesn’t know when they got so damn old. 

***

_December, 2038_.

Dean doesn’t really know what to do with Christmas this year, which is probably why they left decorating the tree so late. It’s bad form, really, because both Emma and Claire could really use the distraction, but at the same time it feels so disingenuous to hang up frigging baubles when last month Jo Harvelle was shot dead in some freak gas and sip shooting. 

Dean hasn’t been able to get Will out of his head for a hot second. He’s six, for fuck’s sake, and he’s lost his Mom the month before Christmas… and it just reminds him too much of the few, brief memories he has of Mary Winchester. He’s in a funk that’s part grief, part guilt (even though there’s no place to pin it) and part depression and no one had been quite sure what the plan for Christmas was up until the last minute. They were supposed to be going to Bobby and Ellen’s, but it’s too raw for everyone. Will’s living with them until his father steps up to the plate (if he ever does, which Dean’s not so sure about; he hasn’t exactly been the poster boy for fatherhood for the first six years, so it seems optimistic to assume he will now) and there’d been a lot of three way debates about whether it would be best for Will to have a bunch of people invading his new home before he got settled in, or to travel someplace else for a distraction, or for them to have separate Christmases. 

Eventually, Jess had this crazy idea to ask the kid where he wanted to go for Christmas. He said Uncle Dean and Uncle Cas’ joint, which means that they had approximately two weeks to plan the best Christmas they fucking could given the circumstances. 

Dean is usually in charge of Christmas decorations, but he just… he can’t. He can’t get out of his funk. He’d already been back on his anti-depressants before they heard about Jo, but they’re not working as well as they should do. Emma has taken to making him cups of coffee and giving him an excessive amounts of hugs, which helps a lot, but also has him stuck on how much she’s picked up about his mood. Dean’s also pretty sure Emma’s been protecting Claire from all of it which is… good, but difficult to swallow. 

Cas did all the grocery shopping online because he’s a fucking saint. The only thing he’s asked Dean to do since they realised Christmas had suddenly become their responsibility is to pick all the groceries up after his therapy appointment and, because Dean is crap, even that feels like a massive challenge. 

He manages, just about, and steps back into their house with the first two bags of groceries to find, _holy shit_ , because in the couple of hours he’s been away their front room has turned into Santa’s grotto. The tree’s up. It’s the artificial one they bought _years_ ago when Dean refused to buy the real deal for just the two of them and their couples-Christmas, but it does the job. There’s fairy lights. Someone’s thrown tinsel every which way (Claire, probably) and, even more astoundingly, when he steps into the kitchen… Cas, Emma and Claire are sat round the kitchen table _making_ decorations. 

“Look, Padre,” Claire says, up on her feet and beaming. 

“Looks good, Claire bear,” Dean says, “Although, I’m gonna need an explanation. Why’ve you stuck Uncle Gabe’s face on it?” 

“It’s for the top of the tree,” Claire says, smirking at him. “Cause of the angel Gabriel.” 

Dean’s entirely sure that Claire is the most hilarious eight year old to have walked the planet. Like, fucking hell, he definitely wasn’t that funny when he was a kid and Sam _still_ isn’t that funny. The angel is pretty wonky, as decorations go, but he’s a hundred percent intending to keep it for years and send a picture to Gabriel every year till the end of time. 

“Emma, show your father what you’ve made too,” Cas says, smirking too. 

Emma holds up her own decorations, shaking glitter off them as she goes, and looks at him with one of her all too serious, worried expressions. “They’re 67 Chevy Impalas,” 

“I can see that, Princess,” Dean says, beaming as he leans forward to look at it more closely. “Damn, that’s a sweet impala.” 

“Do you like it?” 

“Yeah, Emma, I love it,” Dean says, “Get over here, you guys. Give me a hug.” 

“I’m sorry about Aunty Jo, Daddy,” Claire says, clutching hold of him, voice uncharacteristically solemn. “Emma said she’s like your sister and that we should try to treat Will as normally as possible.” 

“That’s a good tip,” Dean agrees, running a hand over Emma’s hair. She’s theoretically too old for this touchy feely kind of crap, but she doesn’t tend to whine about boundaries and all the rest when Dean’s sad. She’s a hellauva kid, Emma. 

“Can we hang them on the tree now?” 

“Yep,” Dean says, then Claire’s off his lap and in motion. Emma follows her, but slower, more deliberate, taking her impala decorations and a few of Claire’s haphazard glitter stars. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, standing up and drifting towards him, letting Cas pull him into a hug. He feels like crying, but not in the same way he’s felt like crying for the past few days. This time, he feels like crying because beautiful, wonderful Castiel managed to turn the fact that Dean’s in this rut and failing his Christmas decoration responsibilities into a bonding experience with their kids; because he’s got glitter in his hair, because he’s been sticking sequins onto ready cut out stars and because he wraps his arms around Dean’s back and just _holds_ him in the kitchen like he’s done for years. “You’re awesome. Best fucking husband ever.” 

Cas flicks glitter into Dean’s hair on purpose, but Dean reckons the title can stick nevertheless. 

* 

_December, 2068._

“Harvelle, as I live and breathe,” Dean comments, as he opens the door and finds Will stood on his doorstop with a bottle of decent scotch with ribbon tied around the top. “You doing okay, kid?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Will says, “I tried to call to say I was coming round,” 

“Phone must be flat,” Dean says, mouth dry. “Come in, man.” 

The guy’s got several bags of presents in the trunk and it strikes Dean, again, how little contact Will has with the Winchester side of the family these days. Dean’s kind of his last proper connection. After Dean’s ten feet under (which he’s thinking is gonna be a couple of years, max, which he’s totally okay with actually), Will’s gonna become that distant cousin no one ever sees anymore and that _sucks_. 

“You here for our annual chat?” Dean asks, as he helps Dean lug up in the presents. 

“Guess so,” Will says, then his gaze falls on Cas’ stupid trench coat that Dean still hasn’t put away and, fuck, Dean had sort of forgotten about that. Well, he hadn’t. His eyes fall on it every time he walks past it, but he had forgotten that not everyone would probably _get it_. He’d figured he’d put it away before everyone invaded his house for Christmas. “You okay, Winchester?” 

“No,” Dean says, because he made a promise to himself, a long time ago, that he’d always be honest with Will. He swore it on his memory of Jo and he figures he owes it to him even more, now, even if he’s not yet at the point where he can be honest with his own kids, or even frigging talk to Gabriel about the weather. “But I ain’t really expecting to be.” 

“You don’t get used to death,” Will says, as Dean flicks on the coffee machine. “Every time it happens it still just… completely knocks you for six.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, because one of the things he hates most about all of it is that the world seems to think he shouldn't be so damn surprised that Cas is gone all the time, just because he was seventy six when he died. If they'd both made it into their hundreds Cas' death would have still shook him to bones. “Yeah. It shocks me to the core every damn morning. Been four months and I’m still… well, last month was our fifty fifth anniversary. You don’t bounce back from that.” 

“Dreading Christmas?” 

“With every single atom,” Dean says, “You wanna drink?” 

“I’m driving,” 

“One beer?” 

“Yeah,” Will smiles. He’s not a bit like Jo, which hurts sometimes, but he’s not a bit like his father either. It’s also pretty aces that Will never took on the burden of becoming like Jo, just because she died when he was so, so young. He looks a little like her, with the blonde hair and the eyes. “How are Emma and Claire?” 

Then Dean starts the routine of rehashing every family update he’s been delivered in the past few months, whilst Dean’s been sat in this dumb, empty house waiting for everything to stop being so unfathomably hard. 

***

 _December, 2049_. 

The last thing Dean's expecting on the 23rd of December is for Will Harvelle to show up on his front door. The kids' seventeen and lives an eight hour drive way, so he stands there and stares for a few minutes before he thinks to invite him in. Cas and Claire are in town Christmas shopping and Emma's busy doing a family thing with her fiancé’s parents, so it's just Dean inside.

"What's up, Harvelle?" Dean says, forehead creased as Will shrugs off his jacket, arms folded. 

"Should I hang this up? Grandpa always said you were funny about that." 

"Whatever, dude, no one else listens to me," Dean says, "You want a drink?" 

"Beer, please." 

"Sorry, kiddo. You're not twenty one yet." 

"Whatever," Will says, then, "Coffee." 

"Coming up," Dean says, "So, what can I do for you?" 

"I want to talk about my Mom. I didn’t know where else to go,” 

“You thought about asking your Dad?” 

“My Dad’s a chump,” Will says, folding his arms. “He’s a fucking idiot.” 

“Eh,” Dean says, “No arguments there. You used to talk about your Mom with Ellen, any chance?” 

“Yeah,” Will says, pulling his arms in tighter, “Yeah, we used to talk about it. Now she’s gone too. Bobby. My Mom. I’ve just got my dumbass father and he doesn’t know a damn thing about it.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Okay, Harvelle. What do you wanna know?” 

“What was she like?” Will asks, looking a little less _hardened_ and a little more vulnerable. Dean can only imagine how many times Will hashed this conversation over and over on the eight hour drive t Lawrence. 

“Your mom was a fucking bad ass,” Dean says, smiling. “She used to hustle my ass at pool every single Christmas. Then she’d pull her cute blonde routine and I’d fall for it all over again. Not that I’d ever her _call_ her cute. She’d kill me. Ellen showed you pictures, I bet?” 

“Yeah,” Will says, “She was beautiful.” 

“Damn right,” Dean agrees, “But low betide the chucklehead who tried to tell her that. She was one of kind, Jo. Her and Ellen used to butt heads something stupid.” 

“She argued with Ellen?” 

“Constantly.” 

“Can’t imagine anyone arguing with Ellen. She’s, _was_ , a hard ass.” 

“You bet,” Dean says, “But Jo was just the same. Lost her Dad – Bill, your namesake, when she was just a kid. Nine, I think. Reckon she was a Daddy’s girl before that, but I didn’t meet her till a little after. She was like a little sister to me though, Will, same as how Ellen and Bobby were kinda my surrogate parents. I know we aint strictly blood, but you’re my nephew by any way I reckon it and you’re welcome whenever the hell you want.” 

“Thanks, Dean,” Will says, quietly. 

“You still want that beer?” Dean asks, which gets him a smile and a nod. Dean pulls two out the fridge then sits back down opposite him. Will’s a good kid. One of the things he’d been worried about when Ellen passed was him staying connected with the Harvelle-Winchester-Singer clan; Will’s situation was complicated and has been ever since the shitty shooting. “So, Harvelle, what’s going on with your old man? He know you’re here?” 

“No,” 

“Mind if I drop him a line, stop him worrying?” 

“He won’t care,” 

“As a parent,” Dean says, “I’d like to state, for the record, that we’re misguided, illogical, stuck in the past and damn well idiotic a lot of the time, but we definitely care.” 

“He just…” Will says, picking at the label on his beer before he’s even drank any of it. “He has no idea what it’s like. It’s like he thinks I should be okay about Ellen by now, cause she’s just my grandma and she was really old and really sick, even though I lived with her and Bobby for like… years. Day after the funeral he asked me if I wanted to _watch the game_.” 

“He’s probably trying to connect with you,” 

“Maybe he wouldn’t have to _try_ if he’d been there when I was a kid.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But, he can’t exactly fix that now. You gotta give the guy a chance.” 

“It’s just… I still miss Bobby all the time, let alone Ellen.” 

“I miss Bobby every other day,” Dean says, “I miss Jo every time there’s a family meet up and she’s not there. Hell, Will, I still miss my Mom every damn Christmas and she died when I was four.” 

“When you were four?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking a swig of his beer, “Fire. Sam’s nursery.” 

“I just…” Will pauses, takes a drink of his beer then frowns at it for a few seconds, “I always figured you understood. Guess that’s why.” 

“My dad was kind of a chump too,” Dean says, “He fell apart after my Mom. Spent my whole childhood travelling across America, till Bobby got involved, then Ellen. They looked out for us. Put me through college whilst my Dad stayed on the road. He passed in a car crash when I was twenty five. I got a lot more sympathy for the guy after having kids myself. Give him a chance.” 

“You think?” 

“Not that it excuses it, but the guy wasn’t expecting to become a dad, let alone a single Dad. You spent so much time with Ellen and Bobby he’s probably got no idea where to start with you. Guy hasn’t got a damn clue what he’s doing, so just… have a little patience, okay? And you need to complain, you got me whenever.” 

“You still miss your Mom?” 

“Oh yeah,” Dean says. 

“You remember her?” 

“Bits,” Dean says, “Not much, though. Mostly just stories from my Dad.” 

“I just… sometimes I feel like I talk her up in my head. Like, the only reason she seemed so perfect to me was because I don’t remember it properly.” 

“Most six year olds think their Mom’s perfect. I’m just damned sorry you didn’t get to know her properly. She’d have been damn proud of you, Will. You’re a great kid.” 

“Thanks,” Will says, blinking, then he’s back to taking another gulp of beer. It’s then that Emma gets back, pushing open the door into their kitchen then smiling when she sees Will there. Emma is the queen of empathy, so she doesn’t ask him why he’s there, just accepts it with a “Hi Will, Padre.” 

“How was meeting the parents?” Dean asks, glancing at her. She’s got that usual expression she gets when she’s been with her fiancé, which both thrills and terrifies him in equal measures. He worries. Emma’s so frigging sensitive and this, really, is her first actual relationship. She’s young. She seems too damn vulnerable to be so committed, but then again Emma’s most definitely in charge when it comes to her fiancé. That helps Dean sleep at night. 

“I’ve known them for years,” Emma says with an eye roll, but she’s still riding on cloud nine, so there’s no real annoyance there. 

“Have fun?” 

“Yeah,” Emma says, then shrugs slightly. “It’s strange. They’re so _normal_.” 

“Hey, we’re normal.” 

“Padre, Jake has two sets of grandparents and they’re all related to him by _blood_. Everyone’s heterosexual. All their children were conceived by normal means. There’s no absentee fathers. No mental health struggles. No Gabriels. No Amelias. No cult sisters. The most dramatic thing that’s ever happened in his extended family is a divorce, and even then they split custardy week by week and both attend family gatherings, where everyone’s civil. It’s a little disarming,” Emma says, then drifts over, “Don’t worry, Padre, I’m not a convert. None of it feels… authentic. Like, Jake’s cousin caused a family controversy because everyone thought he was going to be a doctor and he decided to study the liberal arts. Just… this family has never wanted me to be anything but myself. It’s built on love and respect rather than, you know, blood relations and generation old frustrations.” 

“Yeah,” Will agrees, which is kind of a miracle. Dean has no idea how Emma always seems to know exactly the right thing to say, whilst Dean just blunders around doing his best. “Bobby and Ellen would always call me out on my bullshit, but it was always authentic.” 

“Oh yeah,” Dean agrees, “Their tough love approach got me through college. Bobby probably kept me and Cas together at least twice.” 

“You and Cas nearly broke up?” Will asks, looking surprised. 

“Once upon a time,” Dean says, “I’ll tell you about it sometime, if you want.” 

“Yeah,” Will says, with this unsure smile, “I’d like that.” 

“We were talking about Jo,” Dean says to Emma, who smiles, gets herself a glass of water and sits down opposite him. She’s not around nearly as much as Dean would like anymore, even if they live pretty close. 

“Jo taught me how to play poker one Christmas,” Emma says, smiling. 

“Still pissed about that,” Dean mutters, “ _I_ wanted to teach you. You were _six_.” 

“It’s how I can always beat him,” Emma says, which has Will actually laughing and gives Dean enough time to dig out Will’s father’s contact details and send him a text message to explain the situation. 

*

 _December, 2068_.

Emma’s kids are great, even if they’ve been hit up with such a large dose of normal that Dean’s entirely sure that he’s never going to properly understand them; they have a proper square family, a good Mom and a reputable Dad with homely, respectable jobs and a stable relationship, they go to Church on Sundays, good grades, a life so frigging steady Dean can’t really believe they’re not bored with all of it all ready. They have Emma as a Mom, so they’ve been taught the importance of understanding other people’s emotions and feelings from the crib. They don’t quite have Emma’s natural talent for it, though, so when they’re the first to invade Dean’s house on Christmas Eve they’re far too quiet and far too awkward for a couple of kids. 

“Hey, Princess,” Dean says, as Emma pauses to hug him in the corridor. 

“Hey, Daddy,” Emma says, then he’s being presented with a bottle of sparkly crap by her husband. Jake shakes his hand like Dean hasn’t known him for nearly two decades. “Amelia, Ben. Are you going to put your presents under the tree?” 

They do, almost silently, and it’s then that Dean realises that it’s going to be a frigging long day. 

Sam arrives next, which is a blessed relief. Then Claire who’s dyed her hair and even paler blonde since Dean saw her last, which was like… two weeks ago. She never grew out of the eyeliner thing, which makes Dean’s chest ache as she hugs him, offering him one of those Claire-smiles that Dean feels like he spent most of her teenage year battling for. 

“Looking good, Padre,” Claire grins, “I bought you tequila.” 

“You are a beautiful human being,” Dean says, managing an actual smile. 

“Did someone say tequila?” Gabriel asks, suddenly at the front door. Dean’s stomach lurches. He hasn’t seen him since the funeral which, yeah, he knows is dumb, selfish and fucking awful of him (it’s the exact opposite of what Cas would have wanted, but he feels like burning the whole damn planet down anytime someone uses that phrase, so whatever). Gabriel isn’t even a whole lot like Cas. Age made them look more alike, definitely, but their mannerism are still totally fucking different. “Hey, Deano.” 

“Gabriel,” Dean manages, throat suddenly thick. 

“You ready to face the circus, Padre?” Claire asks, hand on his arm, forced smile pulling at her lips. 

“The circus is currently, like, Emma, Mr Emma, Amelia and Ben so…yeah, reckon so.” 

“Well, you know what Emma and Jake are like sometimes,” Claire says, wrinkling her nose slightly. Dean’s kind of glad that he has Emma’s support in not being a hundred percent about Jake, even though they’ve had a damn long time to get used to him (Cas told him he definitely would get used to him, but Dean’s not counting on it). “Couples are gross. Emma and Jakes especially.” 

“They’ve gotten better,” Dean comments, glancing towards the door. 

“You were worse,” Gabriel comments, walking straight into his kitchen and helping himself to a measure of whiskey. Dean’s stomach turns over and he winds up completely floored within a split second. _This_ is why he can’t handle Gabriel because, as much as Cas was Dean’s husband, Claire and Emma’s father, Rob and Mary’s uncle, Amelia and Ben’s grandfather… Castiel was the only person Gabriel had left. Dean’s not the only one who’s never coming back from this. 

“This sucks,” Dean says, finding the words from that deep, empty place in his chest that he can’t seem to manage on a day to day basis. 

“Yeah,” Claire agrees, hand on his arm, expression tight. “Tequila now?” 

Emma will, no doubt, disapprove. Hell, Cas would have disapproved too, because alcohol is on the list of crap he’s not supposed to do to cope with things but Cas _isn’t here_ and he’s not _coming back_ and his own grandkids can’t even look at him straight because of it. Plus, it’s Christmas. 

“Damn straight, Claire bear.” 

* 

_December, 2047_

"My favourite thing about your father?" Cas is repeating, which is enough for Dean to pause in the door way, curious. Emma is spinning her brand spanking new engagement ring round her finger, smiling at it. Dean's never seen her like this. It's weird. He's a mixture of pleased and terrified. He's sure they're rushing into it, even if Cas just smiled and said that Cas knew who he was going to marry at twenty three (Dean wanted to remind him of how royally the fucked that up when they were twenty three, but Cas had already kissed him and wondered back into their family Christmas with added Jake). 

"Yeah, like, in the beginning. The first thing you liked about Dad." 

"That's a completely different question, but I'll answer both. At the beginning, I thought your father was loud, obnoxious, immature, sexist and rude, if gorgeous. More pertinently, I was enthralled by his attitude to life: the jokes, the childlike joy he seemed to find in pop culture references that I didn't understand, his diligence when it came to his brother. I fell for how much he loved his car. His ability to enjoy star wars the 200th time. The cocky attitude combined with the self-deprecation. Then I learned about his unwavering loyalty. I've never met someone as unconditionally loyal as your father, although I believe it's a Winchester trait. You have it, too. Then I fell for the fact that your father accepted me exactly as I was. Better, your father valued exactly who I was. I've always been a little... different. My brother's spent my whole life telling me I was no fun, until I actually believed it. Three weeks after we met we Dean was laughing, hand on my shoulder demanding I never changed. No one had acknowledged my uniqueness as being anything but a flaw before. "Now, I love your father’s strength, his humour, the way he loves until it breaks him. I love the way he loves both you and Claire. I love his brash temper, the way he lashes out when he’s hurt, the fact that his music taste hasn’t changed in forty years. I also very much value the fact that, even after such a long time, Dean still puts _effort_ into our relationship. I forget that, sometimes. This past eighteen months has been a good reminder,” 

“Do you like Jake?” Emma asks, the smile evident in her voice. 

“Not that it matters in the slightest,” Cas says, “But I do.” 

“Claire doesn’t.” 

“Claire is probably having a hard time adjusting to the fact that you’re in a serious relationship, let alone considering marriage.” 

“Daddy doesn’t, either.” 

“Your father is pig headed, stubborn and overly protective. He will come round. Did he tell you this?” 

“No, I just… I can tell,” Emma says, sighs. That makes Dean feel like shit, actually, because… hell, maybe he doesn’t think much of the guy, but really he’s only met him a handful of times and he’s… nice enough, but Dean absolutely does not want to be raining over Emma’s parade. She shouldn’t be worrying about what _Dean_ thinks. 

“Are you going to ask your father what his favourite thing about me is?” 

“No,” Emma snorts, “He’ll just say _his dick_ or _oral sex_ or something. He wouldn’t answer properly.” 

“He might surprise you.” 

“I just… I’m just grateful that I’ve had you and Padre to look up to,” Emma says, voice quiet. “I guess that’s why I was asking. I want a marriage like you guys have, you know? Where you still get excited to see each other and, just, you still have date night and all that. Even if you’re not always... perfect,” 

"You mean even though we've proved we are neither always able to cope effectively, or able to keep our issues separate from your lives." 

"You've had a rough year," Emma shrugs, "but you're still... solid."

“We still have sex a lot, too,” Dean adds from the doorway, just because it has Emma flushing then looking guilty. He gets both Cas and Emma looking up at him from the sofa, too. “Just, FYI.” 

“Did you…?” 

“Been listening for a while, yeah,” Dean grins. “Don’t sweat it, Emma. I’m not a big sentimental talker. I get it.” 

“Sorry,” 

“Seriously, Princess. No worries,” Dean says, “Although, for the record, it’s his ass, not his dick that’s my favourite.” Emma throws a cushion at him and Cas smirks. “And, you know, his stupid unfathomable belief – in me, his brothers, God. Never known someone who’d fight so damn hard just to prove my self-deprecation act wrong. The way he talks like he learned how to frigging speak without ever talking to someone. The deadpans and the sarcasm can have a whole sonnet on it’s own. I still think of that huge argument we had in college when you pretty much said I was a sexist asshole because I’d never met a woman was a hundred percent a turning point. You call me out on my bullshit, whether it’s the asshole kind of the low self esteem kind and then you go ahead and love me anyway. That’s pretty aces. What you said about watching you parent these guys. I mean, holy shit, I thought I was _done_ before we adopted, then I spend five minutes watching you with Emma and I just… man, I didn’t know I could love you more. The dedication. The eternal causes. The secret rebel thing. Oh, and the oral sex. That’s a huge factor in why I married you,” Dean finishes, offering Emma a wink. 

“You suck,” Emma says, throwing a second cushion at him. 

“No, Pumpkin, _Cas_ sucks. That’s what I’m saying. Claire and Ellen are setting up poker. They sent me to come get you.” 

“Okay,” Emma says, standing up. 

“Better round Jake up, too,” Dean adds as an afterthought. “It’s a family Christmas tradition, after all.” Emma smiles at that and pauses in the doorway to wrap her arms around Dean’s neck for a few seconds, then she releases him, more of a spring in her step than usual. She’s not usually so excitable. If that’s what Jake does then… well, Dean can deal. He’ll get used to him. 

***

 _December, 2068_

Dean wakes up on Christmas Day in Claire’s room like he has every single morning since August, because he’s a sentimental, broken old man who can’t face his own fucking bedroom, except because it’s _Christmas_ it feels like the world’s ending all over again. He’d made his peace with his sleeping arrangement, but then suddenly he fucking can’t. 

It’s too early, anyway, like Dean’s body is still labouring under the belief that someone’s going to be tugging at his heals if he doesn’t get up, sharpish, on Christmas Day. He told the whole lot of them that if they got to his house before eight then they weren’t going to be allowed in, though, which means he’s got nearly two hours to kill before everyone starts showing up. 

He winds up wandering into his actual bedroom which… well, it’s a bad idea. It’s not like Dean shut the door to that room on the fourteenth of August and hasn’t been back since. He’s stood in the doorway to the stupid room plenty. He’s sat on the edge of the bed. One day last month he even lay down on the middle of their double bed and stared at the ceiling for a few hours. He spent a lot of September sending messages to Cas’ phone and in October he spent _hours_ in the dumb room charging the damn thing up to delete every last one of them. It’s still plugged in on Dean’s side of the bed. 

This time Dean actually gets under the covers. He’d had this naive hope that the covers might smell like Cas, but they don’t. They’re just cold and empty and Dean can’t quite get past the fact that they’ve been on the bed for four months. He… he doesn’t even know what he wanted, but he’s pretty sure he was expecting to somehow feel closer to the guy, but all he’s got is the cold hard logic of his own head reminding him that, yeah, crawling into his own bed just makes him feel as alone as he always thought it would. There’s no comfort in it. There’s no comfort in any of it. There’s sentimental crap in every inch of this house and Dean’s both terrified to face it and terrified to avoid it. 

Dean strips the bed. He’d like to burn the sheets, but he might regret that later, so he just adds them to the laundry pile instead. His lungs hurt, his chest aches, his arthritis is making itself known more than usual, which Dean’s fully intending to blame for the fact that his hands are shaking when he makes himself coffee. 

***

 _August, 2068_

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all good down here, Emma,” Dean says, leaning against the coffee vending machine as he messes with his change, cell wedged under his ear. “Just come down after you’ve finished work. I got Sam and Gabe coming down and I reckon Cas’ll be awake in a couple of hours. I mean, they’re not exactly a walk in the park, but last heart attack kept him down for a few days max and the Doc says he’ll be fine. Don’t sweat it.” 

“Are you sure, Daddy?” 

“Yep,” Dean says, pressing the button for a basic filter. Hospital coffee is always shit and it tends to get worse the fancier they try to make it. “So save your Daddy’s for when shit really hits the fan. Fucked up our millionaire pensioners marathon a bit, but otherwise…” 

“Okay, I get it,” Emma says, “Call me if you get an update, okay?” 

“Sure, Princess. I better get back to sitting on my ass back. Best seat in the house. Bye, Emma.” 

The coffee’s every bit as crappy as he thought it was going to be, but he still cradles it with both hands on the way back to Cas’ room. There’s a nurse messing with the machines who gives him a small smile, but… the machines have stopped freaking out, looks like, which was the reason why Dean was chucked out of the room in the first place. 

He probably needed away for his own sense of sanity, because… because he swears the damn things are designed to sound as terror inducing as possible. He was just _there_ freaking out in the corridor until a nurse stepped out to suggest that, hey, maybe he might want to call someone (Dean’s still not okay with the patronising crap he gets just because he is, by all accounts, officially an old man). Gabriel went straight to voicemail. Sam picked up and said he’d be there within the hour. By that point, the nurse was back and telling him the doctor wanted to talk to him again, but then Gabriel was calling back and, well, Cas is basically Gabe’s whole family. 

He called Claire, then Emma to relay the ‘Cas had a heart attack but it wasn’t that bad’ memo, because he was still a little shaky and wanted his shit together a little more before facing all of it. He was going to have to call them at some point; he’d rather get it done when he was already out the room, when he’s sure that Cas is still unconscious. 

“Gotta say,” Dean tells Cas, who looks… well, he looks shit. He looks fucking awful. “You’re scaring the shit out of me this time, sweetheart.” Dean takes his seat again and, damn, they’re not meant for old men or humans with any scope for comfort, actually. “You don’t look so hot, buddy.” Dean puts down his coffee so he can take the guy’s hand. It’s kind of cold in a way that’s the exact opposite of comforting but… it’ll be okay. It was fine last time and that scared the ever loving crap out of him, too. Cas is a tough cookie and they told Dean it was pretty mild, as heart attacks go; Cas was ‘very lucky’. They said he’d be awake in a few hours. That he’d be more or less fine, although in the danger zone for a few weeks. “Pretty ironic, though. You spend half our damn lives telling me watch my cholesterol and, bam.” 

“Mr Winchester?” 

The doctor. 

“Dean,” Dean corrects, running a thumb over Cas’ knuckles. 

“Dean,” The doctor says, and then Dean sees the edge to her expression and then it’s just white hot _dread_ and Dean’s just staring at her, speechless and absolutely unable to let go of Castiel’s hand. He sits frozen through _second heart attack after reaching hospital_ and _serious damage_ and _a matter of time_ like any single one of those words make any fucking sense. Then she starts telling him that now would be a good time to call any family or friends to say goodbye and _he just can’t_. He can’t. 

“He gonna wake up?” Dean asks. He sounds at least eighteen times calmer and more put together than he feels, whilst inside it’s just this icy, encompassing fear that he can barely breathe past. It hasn’t exactly sunk in. His mouth is working a lot faster than his brain. “I’m not bringing my kids down here if he’s… if he’s not, if he’s just gonna…”

“He should wake up in the next few hours,” She says, expression grim. 

*

Cas wakes up when Dean’s sipping his way through his fourth cup of hospital coffee, the latest bought to him by the nice nurse who was in the room when Sam told Gabriel that Cas wasn’t going to make it. 

“Hello, Dean,” 

“Cas,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know how many times he’s said it before, but he knows it’s the easiest fucking word to fall of his tongue. He knows it’s one of the first words he thinks when he wakes up and finds Cas curled around him like a cat, the last thing he thinks when he lets his defences down and rolls over to Cas’ side of the bed. It’s the word that finally breaks him; he’s dealt with Sam and Gabriel with gritted teeth, managed to call Claire and Emma with his hands curled into fists to stop them shaking. It’s the _’Cas’_ which has his resolve breaking and the tears starting. “Castiel.” 

“Ah,” Cas says and his voice is so goddamn weak as he squeezes Dean’s hand, the familiar blue of his eyes suddenly fucking blinding. “Not good news, I take it.” 

“Not so much,” Dean manages and, fuck, there’s another tear. He’d had this idea that he could hold off until he was alone, but that’s all gone to hell. “Your heart’s fucked. The life support machine is, you know, supporting your life.” 

“I’ve heard they’re good at that,” Cas says, smiles. 

“Don’t do this to me, man,” Dean croaks out. Another tear. “I need you.” 

“Dean,” 

“I can’t,” 

“Dean,” Cas says again, gently. “Emma and Claire will look after you.” 

“I don’t want them to,” Dean says, clutching at him. He doesn’t even care that it’s completely pathetic, because Dean reckons he’s justified. “My pride can’t take it, for a start. My street cred, Cas.” 

“I wasn’t aware you had any left,” Cas says, “Are they here?” 

“On their way,” Dean says, “Gabriel and Sam are here. They’re getting some food. Gabe’s losing his shit. I’m… Cas. Please, man.” 

“I would fix it if I could,” Cas says and it’s too much. Dean’s leaning forwards to rest his head against the guy’s hip before he’s consciously decided to do so. In seconds, he has Cas running his other hand through his hair. He’s wired up to a bunch of machines which restrict his movement so, yeah, it’s not as comforting as it should be, but it’s still something. Dean sits up again when he hears the nurse re-enters a few minutes later, because his grief is too personal for her to see, even if she bought him coffee. “Do you remember what you bought me for Christmas in our first year of college?” 

“No,” Dean exhales, only it's this ugly broken noise that comes out rather than a proper word. “It was like a million years ago, Cas.” 

“You stole my trench coat and had it dry cleaned.” 

“Cas,” 

“I think about that a lot.” 

Dean actually sobs, this time, as Cas just smiles at him, grip still tight on his hand. Dean’s lost count of the number of times he’s wanted to crawl into Cas chest and frigging live there; just exist in Cas’ warmth, in the receiving end of those casual touches. It’s too difficult to comprehend that he wont get that every day. 

“Hey,” the nurse says, forcing an almost smile. “Sorry to interrupt. Did you want me to go find your brothers? Tell him you're awake.” 

“Yeah,” Dean nods, closing his eyes for a second. “Yeah, thank you.” 

“How long have you two been together?” She asks, pausing on her way to the exit. Dean briefly wonders how many family’s grief she’s born witness today and whether she still loses sleep over it, but there’s not enough room in his head to spare any more thoughts for her. 

“Fifty five years in November,” Cas says, which winds Dean again. 

“You promised me sixty Christmases, you lying bastard.” Dean says, voice breaking a little. Cas smiles again. He looks kind of glorious; still pale, tired and old, but glorious nevertheless. Dean’s never felt this frigging old before. 

“It's the old tall guy right?” The nurse asks, blinking. 

“The old tall guy with the old short guy,” Dean says, “Thanks,” Dean says, then waits for her to leave the room again before speaking again. “I need to get it together. I'm a fucking mess.” 

“I left laundry in the dryer.” 

“It's August, you weirdo, why would you put crap in the dryer?” Dean asks, and he's smiling and crying now, running a thumb over the palm of Cas’ hand, trying to pack in as much physical touch as he can. 

“Will you get the laundry?” 

“Yes, Cas, I'll get the fucking laundry. Jesus Christ, even on your death bed you're a pain in my ass.” 

“I love you,” 

“I know,” Dean says, and he’s still fucking smiling. “I love you so much. I got no idea what I'm gonna do.” 

“You were exceptional.” 

“You too, sweetheart,” Dean says, then it hits him all over again. “Oh, God.” 

“I hope so,” Cas smirks and, holy fuck, Dean is going to miss this every single damn second. 

“Not the moment,” Dean says, blinking at him again, still cradling Cas’ hand between Dean’s own. “Fifty five years and I don't know what the hell to say to you.” 

“You don't have to say anything, Dean,” Cas says, “It's okay.” 

“This is the exact opposite of okay. But, yeah. Alright. Okay. 

"Gabriel," Cas says, then Dean’s turning round to see Sam and Gabriel stood in the doorway. Dean’s stomach lurches because he realises that means he has to leave this room and he doesn’t want to. He wants to throw a tantrum, scream in the doctor’s face and refuse to let Cas die. 

"Cassie," Gabriel says, uncharacteristically solemn. 

"I'll give you two a minute," Dean says, kissing the guys knuckles before he stands up. "Just, not yet. You gotta give me a couple more hours, Cas." 

"I'll endeavour to stick to a convenient schedule," Cas croaks out, trying to sit up. Gabriel leans forward to support him and it makes Dean’s everything hurt, but Dean’s lost a hell of a lot of people he didn’t get to say goodbye to in his life and he won’t do that Gabriel. He’ll play nice. He’ll give everyone their time. 

"Dean," Sam says, following him out and, thank fuck for Sam Winchester. 

He manages to stop crying and get himself together (or, an approximation of together; Dean’s pretty sure that he’s never going to get there again) just before Claire and Emma arrive, which means he’s able to pull off the steady-fatherhood routine up until the point that he’s alone again. 

****

 _December, 2068_

Claire takes a moment out to call the original Amelia. Dean’s never entirely sure how Claire feels about her side-family (Claire’s coinage and Dean’s always been believer of taking her cues about this kind of stuff, so now they all use it; she has a side-mom, two side-sisters and a side-brother) because she tends to keep it locked up pretty tight, but he does know that’s something she used to talk to Cas about. He was going to try and step into the gap, but he’s been consumed with himself and all of it for months. He figured he was going to do a lot of stuff in the few days after, but that’s before the reality hit. 

There’s too many people in Dean’s living room. Sam’s got five grandkids, for fucks sake. By some miracle, Robbie and Mary are still both romantically attached to their other halves, so they’re there too. Emma, Jake, Amelia and Ben. Gabe. Sam. Claire just the other side of the door. Everyone. _Everyone’s_ here. Everyone, except Jess. Except Ellen. Except Bobby. Except Jo. 

Except Cas. 

Dean’s so fucking scared of who’s not going to be there next year that he can barely concentrate on Amelia and Ben throwing wrapping paper at each other instead of opening the presents. He’s frozen on his armchair, staring at the dumb glittery impalas that he and Sam hung up on the tree last week and he just… Dean doesn’t know what to say if someone starts talking about Cas. He doesn’t know what he’d do. He doesn’t know whether he’d cry or shrug it off. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t done this before. 

Dean tunes back into the conversation just as Mary snaps at Rob about not handing his coat up… and then Dean’s bailing out on his fucking _huge_ family because he can’t breathe and he can’t _be_ there anymore. 

He ends up in the kitchen. He’s white-knuckled to the kitchen counter, half bent over from the weight of it suddenly pressing in on him from all sides. 

It feels like he’s having a panic attack, except he’s still breathing just fine. His breaths are still coming one after the other, like they always do, but that familiar tight _panic_ in his chest is damn near consuming him. His head’s swimming. He can’t move. 

“Hey, Deano,” Gabriel says, suddenly stood next to him in the kitchen. Dean can’t focus, but then Gabriel’s clapped him on the arm and is leaning against the hob. “You doing okay, bro?” 

“No,” Dean manages, “No.” 

“Yeah, me neither, bucko,” Gabriel says, “Miss him a lot for a prissy, self-righteous bible-basher.” 

“I thought you were worried about your mortality,” Dean says, as the world comes a little more into focus. It’s not the same as having Cas talk him through it, step by step, but _someone_ talking at him like he’s not losing his damn mind helps. 

“Please,” Gabriel says, “I’ve got hedonism tattooed across my soul. Just call it… being sentimental.” 

“What? You go to frigging church because you’re _sentimental_.”

“Because it reminds me of Cas, genius.” 

“Not ready to poke the bruise yet.” 

“Poking the bruise is all I’ve got,” Gabriel shrugs, “Anyway, who are you kidding? It’s not a bruise, it’s a gaping fucking wound and right now you’re wading in it.” 

“Graphic,” Dean nods, sucking in a breath and standing up. “What do you want from me, Gabriel? Cause I haven’t got it. I can’t… I can’t help you.” 

“I want you to quit burying your head in your ass and call me sometime, Whinechester,” Gabriel says, “And it’ll probably help us both.” 

“Padre,” Claire says, stepping into the room. “Gabe. You okay?” 

“Nope,” Dean says, blinking. It’s possibly the first time he’s been honest about the whole thing with either of his kids since the funeral. 

“Hell no,” Gabe says. 

“You doing okay, Claire bear?” Dean asks, straightening up and swallowing back a little of the panic. Fatherhood. Focusing. Not having a complete breakdown in front of his daughter. 

“I guess,” Claire shrugs, “I mean, it’s… I miss Dad.” 

“Snap,” Gabe says, then he’s pulling her into a hug. 

“Hey,” Emma says, closing the kitchen door behind her. She drinks in the three of them bunched around the kitchen then tilts her head slightly. It’s such a Cas like gesture that Dean’s a little blind sighted, but then Emma’s been wearing that expression since she started school. 

“We were just talking about Dad,” Claire says, then her voice cracks and she’s suddenly _crying_. Emma’s crossed the room and is hugging her in three seconds flat. Dean gets that familiar warm proud feeling he always gets when Claire and Emma take care of each other all mixed in with the grief and the rest. 

“We all miss him,” Emma says, her voice small. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah. We do.” 

“I think it’s time for a group hug, Winchester-Novaks,” Gabriel says after a few moments of quiet, because Gabriel’s a few years shy of his eighties and he still hasn’t grown out of being a total dickbag all the damn time. Dean’s missed him though. Dean makes a mental note to actually answer the phone if it’s Gabriel from here on in and the pair of them stay in the kitchen for a good fifteen minutes after Claire and Emma have slipped out to rejoin Christmas. 

It's bearable, if not exactly merry. The kids all have fun, even if Dean's a mess, Gabriel's lost the edge to his humour, Claire keeps going quiet and Emma looks like she's searching Cas out before she remembers again. They survive it, which is more than he was expecting. 

*** 

_December, 2015._

Benny’s topping up his glass with more tequila and telling him about his new job, which would be more interesting if it wasn’t for the fact that Dean’s pretty sure they’ve had this conversation several times over, if without the added alcohol content that New Years’ eve tends to bring with it. Plus, it’s his tequila, it’s his New Years party and his and Cas’ new one bed apartment and he’s like… pretty sure that Benny’s been drinking a worrying amount. 

"Dean, it's nearly midnight," Cas says, suddenly at his side. The interruption is actually a little welcome, just because there’s something a little… off about Benny, has been since the Andrea-old man debacle. Dean’s pretty sure he’d want to be drinking away the dregs of 2015 if that had been his life, but still. 

"That's my cue," Dean says, throwing an arm over Cas' shoulders. He’s pretty drunk, too, so it’s the easiest thing in the world to be openly affectionate with the guy. Dean’s pretty sure that kind of crap has gotten easier, anyway. 

"Still weird seeing you all loved up, chief." Benny says, raising his eyebrows, lips quirking up. 

"Can it, Benny," Dean says, pulling Cas in closer, "It's been over two years and it aint changing. Get used to it." 

"Dean, I want to talk to you," Cas says, looking all serious and cute. 

"Alright, Novak. Have at it," Dean says, allowing Cas to pull him to one side, Cas' hands going to his hips. They’re a little way away from the rest of the party, wedged between the book case full of Cas’ books (and Slaughterhouse five, which was Dean’s whole contribution) and the door to the bathroom. 

"I hurt you this year, Dean," 

"And you're bringing this up now?" 

"It's customary to make New Year’s resolutions," 

"All right, okay," Dean says, "Resolutions." 

"I nearly sunk us," 

"Two way street, sweetheart," 

"Yes," Cas agrees, "but, I love you. I love you so much, Dean," 

"This ain't sounding like a resolution," 

"Listen, Dean," Cas says, running his fingers over the bottom of Dean’s shirt, making sure it’s hanging straight. He’s got one of his deathly serious stares on, where he might as well be looking straight into Dean’s soul. It makes Dean feel like the mother fucking batman when Cas looks at him like that. 

"Yeah I'm listening," Dean says, smiling, holding his gaze even though it’s been about a minute beyond his usual comfort looking away point. “I am." 

"I am committed to us, Dean. Above my job, my brothers, my mother's whims. You are my priority." 

"You drunk?" 

"Dean," Cas chastises. 

"Sorry. Sorry. You're being intense and it's, like, my first instinct. Keep going." 

"I want to promise you to do better this year." 

"Okay," Dean says, and he's smiling. "Well not fucking someone else is a good start," Dean says, but he's joking. He doesn't know when they got to the point where they could joke about this, but they kind of did. Cas knows he’s fucking with him, too, because the corner of his lips twist upwards into this gorgeous expression of bemused exasperation. 

There's a smash, though, and Dean turns around to see Benny and a broken shot glass, staring at him. 

"You eavesdropping, dude?" Dean asks, frowning. Benny… yeah, Benny’s not okay and Benny needed to stop drinking, like, an hour ago. Dean hadn’t gone over any of that with him, so it’s no wonder that the guy’s _surprised_ ; Cas didn’t sleep with his Dad, maybe (thank fucking God because, Jesus Christ), but it’s still a little too similar to Benny’s situation. Well, it’s not in the slightest, but it’s… well, he can see how it might seem that way to _Benny_.

"Was cruising for some blackmail material, brother." 

"Well don't," Dean says, and he can feel Cas' gaze hot on his collar, as Dean leans into the space of their little alcove. Everything but his gaze is pointed at Cas. It’s just his frown which is directed at Benny. 

"Dean," Cas says, fingers deftly straightening his collar, fixing him with the kind of look the swallows him whole. Cas is drunk. Dean is, too. 

"Sorry," Dean says, turning back to him. "You know I'm completely over it. Like, way more over it than I ever thought I could be." 

"Still," Cas says. Dean has no fucking idea how Cas can say that one word like it controls gravity, either, but he manages it. It’s like he has a hotline straight to Dean’s chest, where every single damn word the guy says has the capacity to stick there. Fine with Dean. He’d like to keep each and every word that Cas has ever said to him. He’d like to wrap them round himself and live in them. “I will do better this year, Dean.” 

"Well, I wanna one up you. I promise to do better next year and then better again the year after and then better the year after that. I'm gonna love you so fucking hard till I'm grey and wrinkly and fat." 

"Are you drunk?" 

"Absolutely," Dean grins, leaning forward to kiss him. "I'm also completely serious." 

"Good," Cas says, lips chapped, eyes wide and blue, body addictively close. Dean likes living in that space where he's close enough to just... incline his head, stretch a little, then be close enough to kiss the guy. 

The countdown to the New Year starts about a minute later, after they’ve just been stood there grinning at each other. Cas kisses him on eight, because he never got the memo about how anything’s supposed to work, but it is _more_ than fine for Dean to steamroll into 2016 mid kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah. Sorry? This will (kinda obviously) be chronologically the last installment of the series, but I do have some bits and pieces written for a fic between the Tempest and this one which may appear.
> 
> Also, I cried a lot whilst writing this. I don't usually do that whilst writing so that was... new.


End file.
